THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2013

Frances Corkey Thompson

WHEN THE BEES

Ignoring garden-lore, I let weeds
breed, for how they billow, their bombshell grace.
And when the bees

lug their lulling impossibilities
from sneezeweed to honeywort to bold
unlabelled bells that blow also

in Chernobyl, in Fukushima, then I start to know,
in this walled elbow-room, how things might hold
given the touch-and-go.



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